


The Matchmaker

by Gozer



Series: Down-Safe Universe [6]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Early Fourth Series, Humor, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:23:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7686151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozer/pseuds/Gozer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orac tries to have a serious conversation with Avon, as one does.</p><p>Now with a new illustration!  Pen & ink done with a rapidograph in 1987.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Matchmaker

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1987, this story appeared in an issue of B7 Complex. I will post the accompanying illustration, "Man's Best Friend (?)" as soon as I figure out how to do that little thing. *sigh*
> 
> The story was suggested by a scene in Star Trek original's first pilot. You know the one.

The Matchmaker

By Teenygozer

It was an uncommon day on Xenon Base, peaceful and sunshiny.  With Dayna, Soolin, and Tarrant out “catching some rays” as they put it, and Vila investigating possibilities setting up what he termed a “wine attic” (“I don’t even want to go near any place with the word ‘cellar’ in it on this planet, let alone spend quality time there!”), Avon was able to adopt a rare pose of relaxation: feet up, head back, in Dorian’s favourite Barcalounger in the crew rest room.  He considered complex field ratios, rolling the delicate equations around in his mind much as Vila was undoubtedly, even now, rolling a delicate claret around on his tongue.  Even the harsh hum of Orac at this elbow soothed him, so accustomed had he become to the sound.

“Avon?” asked Orac, breaking into his concentration.

“Hmmmm...?” Avon didn’t know what Dorian had done to the little computer while repairing it, but Orac’s new habit of calling the crew by name still threw him every time he heard it.  “Yes, Orac; what is it?”

“Have you given serious thought to reproduction lately?”

Avon’s peaceful mood lasted for all of two seconds more before it evaporated completely, never to return.  The Barcalounger footrest slid back into place with an audible _‘clunk’_ and Avon stared at the innocent-seeming Perspex box.  “Thought to  what?!”

“Reproduction—you have two likely organic female candidates within easy access,” Orac said fussily.  “In Dayna’s favor is the genius she inherited from her father.  Alas, she also inherited an unsuitable wildness from her mother’s genetics.  Though proper research on Soolin’s gene pool has been nigh impossible even for me, I have noted she possesses the admirable characteristics of physical robustness and mental stability.  The latter will offset your own, shall we say, unpredictable and fragile mental status.  Of course, we could hedge our bets, as heredity is at best a gamble, and approach both ladies....”

“That’s enough!” yelled Avon, jarred out of stunned silence by Orac’s proprietary “we” and the appalling suggestion on the tip of Orac’s, for lack of a better word, tongue.  Avon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “Did Vila put you up to this?”

“Certainly not!” sniffed Orac.  “It is simple self-interest on my part!  The span of my existence will outlast yours by many, many generations, and you’re not getting any younger.  You must produce offspring and train them in my care and maintenance!  Now, as I was saying....”

“SHUT UP, ORAC!” Avon yelled a little hysterically, then got control of himself and continued more quietly, but just as firmly, “Orac—this is a direct order.  This is now part of your programming.  I never, ever want to hear you bring this up again.  The subject is none of your business.”

“None of my business!” Orac sounded as if it couldn’t believe its auditory receptors.  “I think my continued existence....”

“If you do, indeed, value your continued existence, you’ll do as I’ve ordered,” Avon said in silky, dangerous tones.  “I don’t want to hear this nonsense from you, Orac, ever again.”

“Oh... very well,” Orac snapped.

Avon stood, gathered his tattered dignity about him, and fled the rest-room, not merely embarrassed, but embarrassed about being embarrassed in front of what was, after all, a mere mechanical intelligence.

Alone, Orac hummed to himself as if considering his options, then spoke out loud to the empty rest room.

“...I shall simply have to broach the subject to the ladies...,” he mused.

The End


End file.
